POETRY 1


Secret Language

Night in bed,
eyes closed,
ears open,
listening to the secret life
outside my window.
The liturgy
of the nocturnal.
Sounds and rhythms of
swift-footed crickets
giving testimony
to the trees that overlook
the native church
like great archways
carved of Roman hands.

The intricate language
of tiny animals
sweeping through the night air
unfaltering
they hold me spellbound.
How can I sleep
without an interpreter?
If only I knew
what they were saying.

I could sleep again.

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